Son of St Canard
by Spiritual Salmon
Summary: Discontinued due to rewrite, which is titled: Iron City, Steel Chains. 7/4/2019 as of now Chapter 1 of Iron City, Steel Chains has been posted.
1. Perfect Strangers

"You're late."

In an undisclosed location to the public, far below the populace of St. Canard and the gaze of its resident vigilante, was a bare room. Its walls were too dirty to be considered white. Inside, a single light bulb dangled from the high ceiling, and two bloodshot eyes trailed its movement back and forth and back again. The only way in and out was through a locked door, and with it, a small glass widow offering a meager form of respite.

"I got caught up, that sweet dame the boss dragged in was so accommodating-"

"Are you fucking kidding me right now! You slept with the chairman's daughter?"

The accused simply ran a hand through his hair, "I never said that."

"You smell like sex."

"What can I say," he shrugged, and leaned against the locked door, "I'm gifted."

The shorter of the two breathed in heavily, sighed, and threw his hands up in the air, "Can we just-"

Glass shattered, and a hand flew out from the window on the door to wrap around the fool's necks. It's grip was fierce, and the owner of the arm let out a bellowing laugh.

"You said you would," the figure giggled, gasped for breath, and continued, "you-you said you would bring me Megsyyyyyy. But all you've brought me is one of his dumb light bulbs!"

"Jesus Christ, get him off me!" The tallest choked out, and both his hands attempted to pull the clown's grip off. What in the ever living fuck had this guy been doing? Bench pressing cars? How in the hell-

The other pulled out his gun.

"No! You'll shoot me you fu-fucking idiot!"

Another hand closed around his windpipe. He weakly scratched at the hands with dull fingernails, but with his vision developing dark spots, it was becoming more and more difficult to cling on to consciousness. The clown pulled his face closer to the door, close enough to hear what it had to say.

"Your _business_ is boring me," the clown hissed, "no Megsy, no Darky, whats a guy to do? I think I'll start with-"

"Rob!" A single shot fired, and just as the clown jerked its hands up and completely shattered the bottom of Rob's jaw, the bullet hit its mark. His aggressor was pushed back by the impact through the chest, a tuneful _you_ escaping its lips, and Rob was dropped like a sack of potatoes to the ground.

Damaged, but alive.

**~10:00 AM AUGUST 16TH, ST. CANARD~**

The morning, in Drakes opinion, could have started out worse. As of now he would have rated it a three out of five stars on Yelp, but being as you cannot physically do that yet, Drake resided himself to glaring at his reflection in the bathroom mirror.

"Gos!" He called down the stairs, "Have you seen my hair dye?"

His daughter was at the door in an instant, dubiously wringing her hands together.

"Gosalyn." Drake said, dread crept up his spine, "What did you do?"

"Don't get mad." She hesitated.

Drake folded his arms, "And?"

"Me and Honker used up your special hair dye'

_By the gods, she better be joking._

'on that Benson jerk. Patty didn't do anything to him, and she was the one sitting in detention because of him!" Gosalyn shook her small fist, a poster child for the underdog.

Perfect. The blonde dye was an essential component to his identity which was a staple of Drake Mallard, this specific blonde was a difficult shade to find, and he looked quite good in the color.

"Did justice prevail, then?"

"Uh," she rubbed the back of her neck, "well, he's stopped picking on _her_."

He sighed, "Gos."

"I can handle myself! You know I can!"

"That isn't what I meant-"

The kitchen phone rang, and fiery red head hurried downstairs to answer before her dad could explain the faults in her elementary school escapade. She had spirit. She had heart. But the girls temper seemed to primarily dictate her actions.

"Launchpad! I've missed you so much! And dad has too, I promise."

It would be easy enough to twist her sense of justice into something less promising.

Drake continued to listen to the one sided conversation between Gosalyn and Launchpad, who normally lived with the single father and daughter duo, but was currently visiting old friends of his out in Duckburg. A Scrooge McDuck, if Drake was not mistaken. The lonesome billionaire. Where Launchpad would be hesitant to give any of the old man's private details away, Drake had no such qualms uncovering information for the safety of his partner. When concerning Launchpad, Drake kept his ears sharp and his gaze vigilant.

"Are you serious! That's awesome!" Gosalyn gushed into the phone, "Dad and I would totally love to go!"

Hold on-

"Wait a moment! We're doing what now?" Drake appeared behind his daughter, snatched the phone from her hand, and before a pin could drop, the mildly amused ten year old was trapped on the floor beneath her father's weight. "Repeat that, Launchpad?"

"It's...well, is taking his family down to an event at his arcadia this Saturday."

"Mhmm." Drake hummed, flicking Gosalyn in the back of the head lightly. She attempted to wiggle out of his pin, and reluctantly, he let her escape.

"And Mr. McDuck is awfully kind. He's letting me bring a few people to tag along, and of course you two would be my first choice. It's even got VR Wiffle Boy!"

"I, uh," Drake hesitated, shit that did sound tempting, "I don't know LP. My boss has me in for Saturday. And my night job-"

There was an obvious pause on the other side of the phone.

"Oh, then maybe I can invite Fenton-" Launchpad mused, unsaid implications dangerously hanging over Drake's head. Woodchuck's honor his ass!

"Wait! Launch!," from the corner of his eye he could see Gosalyn snickering. Drake frantically brought a finger to his lips, "I just got a text! The new kid, Rand, wants more hours. I'll just give him Saturday and...there! Sorry about that! I'm free after all."

"That's great Dar-uh, Drake! Look, I'll pick you two up at eight. I know I've been gone the last couple weeks and although it's a little early, especially for Gosalyn, I was figuring it could be-"

"Me, you, a villain craving my destruction, and an abandoned warehouse?"

Launchpad's laugh sounded like music.

Drake's attention was taken by Gosylan, who stood authoritatively in front of him, and held out her hand. 'Gimme' she seemed to convey. Drake nodded.

"I'm gonna have to let you go, Gosylan wants to talk. I may have rudely taken the phone from her."

**~later that same day~**

"That's a FOWL! Don't favor one team!"

"Kick his ass, sweetheart!"

Now, soccer wasn't Gosalyn's premier sport, as hockey held a special place in her heart. Be that as it may, it was the taunting of several school mates that pushed her into playing, an incentive to prove their playground spite wrong and, for an added bonus, to crush them along the way. Drake knew this perfectly well and loved it.

Don't get him wrong, the prank admitted by his adopted daughter earlier this morning would earn her prison time in the form of extra chores. Meanwhile, this was pure competition.

"Don't let her be too aggressive, Drake." One of the mothers on his left, a lean, athletic woman well into her thirties, said.

A father on his right sighed, "No, his daughter's doing _fine_. Why can't my son play like that?" He raised a hand to cup his mouth, "Get angry Phil!"

"These referees have been ignoring everything!" Someone snapped. "Hey, ref, don't let them hit my kid! Make some damn calls!"

Chuckling nervously at the storm of domestic anger he may have inadvertently unleashed, Drake tugged his baseball cap lower in embarrassment.

"Really now, this is barbaric."

A new voice, and someone who didn't regularly attend these soccer meets. Drake would know, dull moments of his time filled with cataloging the speech patterns of regular attendees. He twisted to get a peak at the speaker who sat on the bleachers behind him; legs crossed, suit crisp, and shoes impeccably shined.

"I hate to disappoint you, but it has been since the Romans." That comment earned him a twitch of the lips.

"Humanity is caught in some kind of rut then, isn't it?"

Drake laughed, "I would dare say that this may be an improvement opposed to a colossal death."

The stranger slid down a row to sit next to Drake, their knees centimeters away from collision.

"The Romans at least had the audacity to make the sport more romantic."

"The day that you make children's soccer seem romantic, Darkwing'll concede St. Canard to good old Gizmo." Drake held his hand up to the man, "Drake Mallard."

The man took his hand and shook it eagerly, "Gladstone Gander."

"Gander? What's a Vegas Man doing on the other side of the country?"

"Hmmm," eyes narrowed, Gander pulled away, "you know me?"

Drake cracked a crooked smile, "Enough to guess that you must be here for family purposes, and if I'm not mistaken, you are related to the McDucks."

Gander may have turned his head back to the game, but Drake could not shake the feeling that he was being appraised.

"I don't travel for business, rarely at all," Gander admitted freely. "They insisted, and if the boys are anything, its persistent."

Drake nodded his head to one of the children on the opposing team, Dewey Duck, "Prideful, considering the heritage of Scrooge McDuck. I have a begrudging respect for Scrooge, and it's not in his business dealings."

A chuckle, low and self indulgent, sprang from the other's chest. Reaching into one of his beige slacks pockets, Gladstone Gander pulled out a crisply folded twenty, and let his thumb stroke over Jefferson's portrait.

"Heritage can only mean so much, Drake, when money rules the world." He tipped his head sideways, eyes half lidded and stared down the other man, clearly taking on the persona of the apathetic bourgeois, "I've heard that knowledge is power, but never fully grasped the term before. The phrase seems obsolete. Can you prove me wrong?"

If anything, Drake was apprehensive of the man's sudden mood swings, but he conceded to the dare. His ego alone would be damned to ignore a challenge, especially an intellectual one.

"You're the luckiest man in the United States, if not the world. You specialize in casino strips: gambling, bars and the like. Yet, not one dirty dollar has tarnished your name. It's considered a godsend that the mob hasn't pounced on you yet. If they have, not a word has leaked to the press. Which makes you a remarkable person, Mr. Gander."

Gander's face twitched, the emotion lasting less than a second, but to the untrained eye he wore a facade of a gentleman, "Remarkable, Mr. Mallard?"

Oh yea, Drake definitely caught that.

"Unmistakably. You either are a dying breed in an otherwise corrupt system, or you aren't as clean as Time Magazine says you are."

"Thorough." Muttered the rich man. That's when Drake felt it, their knee's had touched.

"But," Gander continued, "despite the roaring commentary, not enough to win the bet."

For the last few moments of the game they did not speak to each other, and the silence was admittedly uncomfortable. Drake felt a pair of eyes on him.

It got on his nerves. He didn't like to be watched.

Ironic.

Drawn back to the game, Drake's attention didn't leave his daughter. The game was seconds away from being over, Gosalyn had the ball and was just making her way past the defense. They didn't stand a chance.

'That's my girl!' He inwardly cheered. Duckberg's team was slowly surrounding her, closing in and shutting down any escape routes that may have offered Gosalyn a swift retreat. Her team wasn't helping in that regard, quickly clustering around the defense and thus the goal.

But Gosalyn powered on, unhindered by the closing gap. She lined up her kick.

Drake could see it before she could, but was too far away to give a proper warning. Barreling into her was Dewey Duck, not aiming for the ball, but for her. They collided, crashing down to freshly watered grass and wet terrain.

"GAME OVER!" The referee yelled.

"No!" Gosalyn yelled back, "He tackled me! The rules don't say-"

The referee shrugged, they didn't get paid enough to stick around long after, "Sorry kid, but that's the way it is."

Gosalyn glared at him, laying in the mud that the stupid boy had pushed her into. When it was obvious that the teenager was ignoring her, she directed her anger onto the other. He too was covered in dirt and insects, smiling.

"St. Canard loses once again to the might of Duckberg!" He laughed, and that was the straw that broke the camel's back. Gosalyn lunged for the kid.

"Aw shit!" Drake cursed, witnessing his daughter attempt to throw a hook punch at the McDuck nephew, and restrained by a couple of players from both teams. He quickly stood up and raced down to the field, Gander following close behind.

"Let me go! " Gosalyn growled at the kids holding her back, emphasizing each word with a vicious tug.

One of the boys glared at her, "At least we don't throw a tantrum when we lose!"

"It's not about losing. That ass was aiming for me!"

"Was not!"

Her captors couldn't quite hold onto Gosalyn. Just as she managed to break free, legs tensing and ready to rumble, a single voice rose above the crowd.

"Gosalyn Waddlemeyer Mallard! Enough!"

And there was her father, stalking towards her through children that parted like the red sea.


	2. All in the Family

**June 1965: Arizona, U.S.A.**

**12:30 P.M.**

Listening to the desert wind was an old man in a olive sweater. Both old friends, cast aside for newer technological marvels. However, why he was wearing a sweater in such scorching weather remains a mystery, unless he was preparing himself for the cold desert night.

A mere seven hours away.

He sat on a white plastic bucket covered in specks of red paint. The bucket itself sat on the sand in an uneven tilt, the old man stretching his legs balance himself. It was after a brief furrow of the brows and downward quirk of the lips that he slowly rose to stand, the bucket tipping to the ground with a muffled thump.

"It all empty, Johan, at least until Sunday."

Behind the old man, there was another, albeit thirty years younger, who wore a light grey suit and appeared to be in his early 20's. Crazier than the other man he was accompanying.

"That's because you're late. Our eagles aren't able to fly so close to high noon, not when the sun shall melt their wings," Johan said. "Besides, if they were to spot and recognize you, how would you defend yourself? Hand to hand, father, against the American military?"

The old man held up his hands, "Watch yourself, boy. Back in my prime-"

"You cling to your glory-" But Johan was silenced by his father. He didn't dare lift a hand to inspect the wound on his cheek.

"Don't interrupt! You have always been quick to waive off the past and not appreciate the brilliance that came from it, from your people. Mein Führer would never have spared you a glance."

_'Then perish like the Hitler you so admire, coward.'_

Johan's father grinned, a grim sight to behold. "Now, don't go wishing for my death just yet. You want what I have, here," he pointed to his head, "and what kind of father would I be if I didn't pass down the family legacy?"


	3. Taxi

Rob's face hurt, that he could gleam once unconsciousness slowly began to ease its grasp on his mind.

Maybe he was in hell?

He's probably checked off several of the good ol' Lord's Ten Commandments, and as his ma's always said, 'His eyes are watchin, boy. I don't wanna see your father's pride crowd that small brain of yours.'

Fitting, that she met her end screaming the Lord's word from the front stoop of her house, both broken down and crumbling from years of neglect once his old man passed away in a back alley shootout. Hilariously, it was her heart that killed her, her own body failing. Rob laughed, he couldn't help it. His throat rumbled with amusement, and his lips opened just enough to let a small gasp of air escape.

Despite years being on the end of many zealous tirades, he still loved the old grouch. God, he missed his ma.

Maybe that's why the paramedic could hear a whispered plea for a mother. Maybe that's why Rob could have sworn he saw the ghost of his ma, smiling like she used to when he did her good, proud of the only child she could conceive. A heavy, yet shapely woman in her early 60's, his mother's favorite blue dress brushed the curve of her thighs, and brunette hair looked more like a mop than the soft curtain of shoulder length hair he remembered from his childhood. She leaned down close to his ear, a secret on the tip of her tongue, "Hold on tight, honey."

Wait-

The ambulance suddenly swerved, flinging the two occupants in the back against one side of its steel walls, then to another. The paramedic grabbed onto Rob's gurney, attempting to hold it still as the ambulance steered out of control.

"What the hell are you doing?" She yelled to the driver. A confused sob escaped his throat.

"They promised?" The drivers side window shattered, and he slumped onto the wheel. The paramedic couldn't quite tell or not if he was still breathing. With no conscious driver and his foot still firmly planted on the gas pedal, the ambulance barely managed to skim by several people on the highway who were forced to veer their cars into neighboring lanes, all the while being spared from a vehicular death. But, that meant the ambulance was gaining more and more momentum.

Knowing she was running on borrowed time, the paramedic leapt to the front seats and cursed once she was able to get a better view. Up ahead, less than a mile and losing ground quickly, was a cluster of cars. Thankfully the shoulder was open and clear, but she would worry about maneuvering over to that area once she had control of the car.

"Toony, s-sorr-"

Toony shoved the limp body of the driver over, ignoring his pained grunt, and removed his foot from the gas pedal, "Oye! Later Blake!"

Grabbing the wheel Toony jerked it to her right, knowing full well she couldn't slam on the breaks. The ambulance managed to turn, and Toony prayed. Something she hadn't done in over twenty years.

On the edge of the freeway was the shoulder, and further to its right was a metal barrier. The ambulance hurled itself out of the occupied freeway and into that roadside barrier, causing the inside occupants and material objects to bounce once impact was made. Rob was thrown off the gurney in the process, and was completely oblivious to events happening outside his own world of excruciating pain.

But Toony breathed a sigh of relief. They had stopped, and miraculously, no one else had gotten hurt-

Yet peace was short lived when a four door black truck rammed into the back of the ambulance. Toony was without a seatbelt, and was sent flying head first into the windshield.

"No." Blake whispered.

Toony was certainly dead, and soon, he would be too.

The black truck backed up, and parked. Two doors opened, two men in black suits got out. Blake could hear his own heartbeat growing louder in his ears as the seconds ticked by, anticipation eating away at his nerves.

"He-lp-p meh." Behind him was Rob, the package he was supposed to deliver, conscious. Looking up to Blake with glazed eyes and an outstretched arm on the ambulance floor, all Rob could do was plead for a life that was about to be placed in enemy hands.

* * *

"You are so grounded once we reach home. I hope you like the four walls of your bedroom, cause that's the only thing you'll be seeing for a week."

Drake grumbled on, not pleased by his daughters shenanigans and the inexcusable fact that he was forced to spend more time with Gander as he drove himself, Gosalyn, and the two McDuck relatives to St. Canard's Central Hospital. Admittedly, he enjoyed their mutual banter, but being a billionaire's constant source of entertainment was slowly wearing on the single father's patience. And don't get him started on-

"No, no, no, that isn't how you apply that correctly!" Drake watched from the rear view mirror as Dewey fumbled with the cold slab of meat bandaged to his head, it resting scarcely just over the boys left eye. Gosalyn refused to help, and this proved to be one of the more difficult aspects of the drive in Drake's humble opinion. And he had a lot of humble opinions.

"I think my eye's bleeding," Dewey added helpfully. Cheerfully almost, and it was frankly-

"Weird." Gosalyn scrunched up her nose. Drake was inclined to agree with his daughter. The boy had been nothing but odd when interacting with Gosalyn. He laughed at her jabs and appeared amazed when Gos recounted some of the pranks that she and Honker had committed. The boy was clueless, those admissions were meant to be threats. And his uncle was no different, commenting on the lackluster nature of his car but refusing to call upon any other.

Gander broke him out of his musings. "Mr. Mallard," he began in a smooth drawl, "how-"

"Bout a few more minutes," Drake responded curtly, cutting off the other. He preferred silence, and thankfully was rewarded with its presence. Gander looked towards him, uncertain, then sighed. He resigned himself to gazing out the passenger side window. Ten minutes passed and the two children had fallen asleep in the back seat, oddly symmetrical in their dozing.

"That wasn't what I wanted to ask." Gander continued to Drake's dismay, "I am beginning to realize that I may have made a," he paused, "complicated impression."

Drake was frankly pissed, and his brain to mouth filter was quickly shutting down. Angry at Dewey, at Gosalyn and her recent revenge induced antics, and angry at himself for saying yes so quickly to Launchpad and his cunning methods of persuasion. The McDuck clan proved to relentlessly weasel their way into his life, ever since the senior McDuck laid down the might of his law upon St. Canard. So he snorted and said, "It's the McDuck blood."

"Aha! There you go again!" The billionaire rounded on his driving compatriot, "You have this animosity for my family. It's uncalled for!"

"Uncalled, really?"

"Mr. I have a begrudging respect for Scrooge McDuck. I understand Scrooge may have his enemies, but-"

"Look, don't defend what you don't understand."

Gander scrutinized Drake, finally taking account of his appearance. Simply dressed in a plain black tee shirt, jeans, and flip-flops, it was reasonable attire, due to the early August heat. Drake's eyebrows were bushy, yet groomed, and his thick hair was fading into a natural dark brown. He was quite average looking for a northern Asian male with western attributes, neither tall, nor pudgy. A runner's body.

This man would blend quite well into a crowd.

"I think I understand well enough. You're jealous of Scrooge's wealth and status like the rest of the world."

Drake barked out a laugh.

"The people of St. Canard would be eager to correct that statement."

"Dad?" Gosalyn was looking wide eyed at her father, seemingly a million questions forming in that big brain he knew she had. Screw the people who said, "She's a slow learner."

He made an attempt to lower his voice, unaware of its rising pitch during his conversation with Gander, "Sorry, Gos-"

"Mr. Mallard, look out!"

But Dewey's warning came too late.

Just as they were passing a four way intersection another car rammed into their own, effectively thrusting them from the road and onto the sidewalk. The car wobbled, and with a little help from the influence of gravity, it toppled onto it side.

"It might be coming back!" Yelled one of the children, Drake wasn't so sure which though. A shrill noise was reverberating through his skull, causing the events transpiring around him to move very slowly. Then, mysteriously, a hand appeared before his eyes.

"Come on!" The hand . Which was urged strange. Body parts don't talk.

Against his better judgement, Drake took the talking hand into his own and let it guide him out from the fallen vehicle. Drake saw that the hand was connected to a nicely clothed arm, and further observation revealed to him that the arm was connected to a curly, blonde haired man a heads length taller than him.

Drake swore he had seen that curly hair before. He squinted, "Perry?"

The blonde chuckled, "Well I'm glad we're finally on a first name basis, despite that not being my name."

The last few events flashed before Drake's eyes, and he clutched his head, dizzy at the overabundance of information. He leaned onto Gander's weight, his body already being supported by the man. However, his own aches could wait, their were far more pressing concerns that required his attention.

"Gosalyn? Dewey?" Drake called, stepping away from the taller man. He spotted a glimpse of movement from the other side, just on the edge of the car's rear. Long strides soon brought him face to face with Gosalyn and the McDuck nephew, the later seeming to be in decent condition despite the initial wound to the face.

But Gosalyn was a different story.

Tears stained her rosy cheeks as she looked up to her father, hunched over and pain clearly written on her features. She attempted to smile.

"Didn't get so lucky."

Adrenaline surged through Drake's veins. Nothing mattered at that moment except for the well being of his daughter, who laid before him a mess of tears and blood. He crouched down, hiding a wince. Drake couldn't have Gosalyn see his hurt, not when she was his top priority.

"Tell me whats wrong, Gos." He soothed, hands placed a hairs length away from her bleeding arm. Further contact would be harmful if he didnt know what not to disturb.

Though tears continued to fall, Gos put on a strong face for her father.

"My ankle, i-it isn't...I cant move it."

Drake cursed silently. Carrying Gosalyn around would be much harder now, not to mention the nature of her left shoulder, shards of glass piercing the skin. A small hand touched his side, spooking the man.

"Mr. Mallard, is there anything-" Dewey breathed in deeply, then out, "I wanna help."

The boy was obviously scared. He looked worriedly over Gosalyn's form and made to move closer, when a large hand landed on his shoulder.

"Its alright Dew-drop." Gander stepped besides Dewey, pulling him back slightly, "Why don't we let the two be." It wasn't a request.

Gosalyn, who was the only one to have a clear view of her father's face, witnessed anger cloud his features. He finally allowed his hands to make contact with her bleeding form, assessing the best method to carry her.

Drake looked over to Dewey, "Yea kid, can you lift her torso for me? It'll be a great help while I hold onto her arm and broken ankle."

He then glared up at Gander, challenging.

Gander wasn't bothered, in fact, he seemed to be shutting down, "I'll call for help."

"Maybe my initial statement about you, _Mr. Gander_, was wrong! How much dirty money has soiled your name, cause it sure as hell looks like you're drenched in it."

The boy, Dewey, shrugged off his uncle's hand and quickly walked over to Gosalyn's side. Drake was now sure there was at least one decent member of the McDuck household, and it wasn't pretty boy Gander here. He crouched down and looked up to Drake, waiting for permission to touch the girl.

"Thanks," and he nodded at Dewey, allowing the kid to place his hands on Gosalyn's back and lift her into Drake's arms, as he lifted her bleeding arm and broken ankle. Careful not to jostle the damaged leg too much. Gosalyn whimpered despite her father's careful treatment.

Drake took stock of his environment. They were situated on an empty four way intersection, and not another soul supposedly heard the crash. Open prairie stretched to his left and to his right was the road they were supposed to take, the ironically named Central Hospital located on the edge of the city, past miles of cursed steel and asphalt. No houses, only a summer breeze to keep them company. Drake would have found it calming if he hadn't had been in a fatal accident practically five seconds ago.

Their attacker was gone and the only trace of their presence was a pile of scrap.

"Fuck."

The sentiment was reflected in Gander's expression as he joined Drake and the two children, phone held tightly in one hand while the other pulled on his tie. His suit was beginning to dampen with sweat.

"There's no cell service out here."

"Of course there isn't, I could have told you that."

Gander threw his arms up, exasperated, "Then why didn't you say something earlier?" Drake simply shot the other man a glare in response, effectively silencing any remaining protest. Gander wasn't used to such conditions. Even though he had not sustained any injuries, the weight of his companion's suffering was starting to take its toll. Which would he choose, fight or flight?

Yet the decision was made for him, like all others, when the silence of the open road was interrupted by the horsepower of a speeding engine.

"Dewey, get on the sidewalk!" Drake ordered, nudging the boy off the road. Dewey stumbled, but quickly ran onto the sidewalk and stuck his thumb out in classic hitchhiker fashion. He was quite a sight, with a sagging steak strapped to his head and dust up the ass. But, truthfully, they all looked as strange as him. It would be a miracle if any passing car decided to give them a lift. Meanwhile, Gander sat cross legged on the sidewalk, his back a firm response to Drake's flippant reply earlier.

"I can see you're really putting in the effort. Thanks Gander."

Drake could hear him snort, "And where's your contribution?"

"Don't you dare treat my daughter-" He felt Gosalyn pinch his middle with her good arm. _Quit it_, she conveyed. He sighed, a resigned feat, "It's going too fast. Ain't gonna see us."

Eye's peered at him over a beige suited shoulder, "Don't bet on it, not against me." Gander got up.

To Drake's surprised the billionaire made his way over to the center of the crossroads, glancing over to the gobsmacked father, daughter, and nephew.

"This is how you hitchhike boys and girls." He then held out an arm and extended his thumb. Drake would be hesitant to admit that his brain short circuited at seeing the idiot throw his life away so easily.

The car was getting closer, signaled by the growing timbre of the engine. Drake could even see it in the distance.

"Uncle Gladstone?" Drake blocked Dewey from interfering. He wouldn't allow Gander to put a child's life at risk.

"Hey!" He couldn't tackle the other, not with Gos in his arms, "Look, I said some harsh words, and I'm sorr-"

The squeal of brakes drowned out Drake, but he didn't lose eye contact with Gander. And Gander was-

He was laughing?

The car did stop, eventually. In an attempt not to commit vehicular manslaughter the driver slammed down on their brakes, skimming past the beige suited man and curving in an arc behind him, tire streaks painting the road black.

"Am I lucky or what?"

He turned to look back at the three. Drake, Dewey, and Gosalyn were all wearing identical expressions of wide eyed amazement.

Gander took advantage of Drake's silence, "So, was that an apology I heard?"


End file.
